


Celebrant

by FrozenAbattoir



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenAbattoir/pseuds/FrozenAbattoir
Summary: The Blight is over. Ferelden's untitled masses are picking up the pieces, and Denerim's elite slip back into their habits of wine and excess. And the newly proclaimed 'Hero of Ferelden', Murana Cousland, hates every minute.





	Celebrant

**Denerim, 2 weeks since the end of the Fifth Blight**

The Hero of Ferelden hates parties. More specifically, she isn't a fan of people– and as it happens, festivities always bring a crowd. The constant buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses makes her skin crawl and her stomach churn. Worst of all, someone (she’ll find out who, mark her words) had the brilliant idea to make her the guest of honor. As if Denerim wasn’t a hellhole already.

On a basic level, she understands why. Celebrations help distract people from the fresh horrors of the Blight. Some districts are still fishing darkspawn out of the sewers. Who wouldn’t want to forget about life in a place like this?

But the Warden doesn’t forget.

Even as she deflects polite inquiries into her well-being with a practiced smile, her veins are sizzling with nervous energy. The darkspawn are all but finished, just stragglers and some tenacious holdouts lurking in the hills. There’s nothing left for her to kill.

She laughs with newly appointed Teyrns and drinks somberly with Banns whose holdings remain ravaged by bandits. To all observers the Warden is a delightful guest who always knows what to say. Of course, that’s to be expected of the daughter of the late Teyrn Cousland. Always the perfect little heiress. Shame about the family, isn’t it?

The Warden manages to disengage from an increasingly drunk gaggle of Denerim landowners– she thinks she says something about needing air? Andraste’s blood, if there was ever a poor excuse.

The balcony is at least a marginal improvement. Hearing the excited clamor drifting up from the market-turned-carnival below is far more tolerable than yet another fucking noble showering her in empty praise and by the way, is she still single? Self-serving bastards, the lot of them. Her grip on the railing tightens.

“Quite the party, no?”

The Warden manages to suppress a flinch. Damn it, how had she missed the figure lounging in the east corner? Is she really this frazzled?

“You could say that,” she mutters.

“Oh, and I do. The royal wine cellar is quite something, you know. For all your stubborn pride, you Fereldans do have a taste for Orlesian wine,” that familiar Antivan accent continues. “Simply delightful.”

She turns, raising an eyebrow. “Zevran, did you break into the palace storerooms?”

He shrugs, meandering over to lean against the railing beside her. “Is it truly ‘breaking in’ if no one sees you?”

“Semantics. You’d better hope no one is still sober enough to care.”

He chuckles, taking another swig from a suspiciously ornate bottle. “Why do you think I am enjoying the fruits of my labors out here in the cold?”

She frowns. “It’s not cold–”

He silences her with a finger to her lips. “But it is! My delicate sensibilities have yet to adapt to your delightful kingdom.”

The Warden brushes his hand aside. “Leliana would put an arrow in your throat for that,” she warns. They’d had their fun, once upon a time. But they were far too alike to work out in the long run.

“That she would.”

They stand in silence for some time, watching the crowds below begin to trickle out into the streets and alleyways. The citizens’ celebrations were heartwarming, really. After all, they had suffered the most.

“So,” Zevran begins, “you know why I am hiding out away from prying eyes. What’s a lovely young woman like you doing out here in the dark?”

Her lip curls. “A great many nobles have also noticed that I am apparently a ‘lovely young woman’.”

“Ah.”

“Fucking cowards,” she spits. “Sitting in their safe rooms and fortified estates while the city burned around them.”

Zevran hums in agreement. “How wonderful it is, to be expendable.”

The Warden grinds her teeth. “I hate them,” she admits. “I just…I almost want to…I could get away with it, too. A clumsy slip, glass shards in the throat…such an awful end to the evening but at least our beloved Hero of Ferelden was unharmed–”

“Murana,” he interrupts. “Don’t.”

The use of her name freezes the Warden in her boots. He’s right, of course. There’d be no point. Watching one of those smug, ostentatious lordlings bleed out on the floor wouldn’t bring back the men, women, and children who had died clawing at their estate’s walls.

But it would feel so, so good.

“How can you stand it?” she whispers. “If I have to smile and nod at one more intoxicated Teyrn I think I’m going to snap.”

“Then don’t.”

She blinks at him.

“Just leave.“ He shrugs. “No one can stop you. Find your pretty little Orlesian and vanish into the night.”

That…might not be a bad idea. She glances back at the balcony doors, biting her lip. Song and laughter still filter through the expensive imported wood and she shudders involuntarily.

Zevran pats her on the shoulder. “I understand,” he says softly, and she gets the feeling he truly does. “Stay here. I will fetch your darling Leliana.” He winks, the tattoo around his eye scrunching up.

Her heart twists inside her chest. “Zevran?” she calls out.

He pauses by the doors, hand resting on the paneling. “Yes?”

“Thank you. For…everything.”

“But of course!” He gives her that same sly grin that convinced her to spare his life all those months ago. “Let it never be said that a Crow cannot be a gentleman.” He slips through the doorway, melting into the crowd.

Leliana arrives not a minute later, her gentle smile chasing away the frustration seething in the Warden’s heart.

"A little bird told me you were in need of a rescue,” she says with a wink. “I do hope you don’t mind being a damsel in distress just this once?”

“For you? I’ll make an exception.”

She sighs into the bard’s embrace, idly stroking soft red hair. Yes, this is where she is meant to be– not trapped in a palace playing the gracious guest for dozens of spoiled nobles.

“Fancy a daring escape?” Leliana’s lips brush her ear, and the Warden shivers. “It is only a short drop to the street. We used to do this all the time in Orlais.”

“What, escape parties?”

“No– well, yes. Sometimes. But you never know when a quick exit sans stairs may be required. Shall we?” Leliana takes the Warden’s hand and nods towards the street below.

“I was wondering when you’d ask.” The pair slip over the railing into the night.

The Warden never sees Zevran again.


End file.
